


Unearthed

by FelicisQuill2



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Apocalypse, Bellamy's POV, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon Universe, Clarke's Beautiful Bedroom, DNR party, Dominant Bellamy, Dystopia, Episode: s01e09 DNR, Episode: s04e08 God Complex, Everybody ships bellarke, F/M, Hurt Clarke, I love Jasper and hope that's obvious, Jealous Bellamy, Jealous Clarke, Love, Mirror Sex, Polis, Post-Canon, Reunions, Romance, Season/Series 04, Smut, Speculation, Worried Bellamy, becca's island, becca's lab, becca's mansion, science island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 05:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicisQuill2/pseuds/FelicisQuill2
Summary: As the DNR party and its effects play out, Bellamy still can't get Clarke out of his head, no matter how much moonshine he drinks. So of course he volunteers to go to Becca's Island to bring her back to Polis to explore the Second Dawn bunker. As usual, chaos ensues all around.~~~~~He must look pale, or sick, or something, because Raven squeezes his knee comfortingly once at the end of her speech.“But it’s ok, Bellamy,” she saying. “Luna’s fine. She’s resting in the lab with Abby and Jackson. And,” she gestures at Emori, smiling warmly, “You can see Emori is ok, too.”Bellamy nods slowly, eyes tracking over her face suspiciously. He knows Raven. He knows when she’s not telling him the whole story.“How did you get out of being used?” he shifts his attention abruptly to Emori. She blanches a bit under his intense gaze.He turns to Murphy, who won’t make eye contact with him.“Who did you use instead?” he demands, slamming his bottle down on the glass table and standing up. “Miller, tell me right now!” He can feel the blood pounding in his ears, knows what the answer is by the way they won’t acknowledge the question.





	1. Whatever the Hell He Wants

**Author's Note:**

> A month-long hiatus is torture, guys. So here's some Bellarke speculation to help see us through! :) Happy Reading! Your comments and kudos light up my whole day.

_“Hey baby won’t you look my way?_

_I can be your new addiction._

_Hey baby what you gotta say?_

_All you’re giving me is fiction._

_I’m a sorry sucker, and this happens all the time_

_I found out that everybody talks,_

_Everybody talks, everybody talks_

_It started with a whisper,_

_And that was when I kissed her_

_And then she made my lips hurt_

_I could hear the chit chat_

_Take me to your love shack_

_Mama’s always gotta back track_

_When everybody talks back . . ._

_. . . Never thought I'd live_

_To see the day_

_When everybody's words got in the way."_

_~Neon Trees, “Everybody Talks”_

 

 

“Hey! Where are you going?” Bellamy calls out to Jasper as he walks swiftly past him away from the macabre funeral scene.

 

“Wherever the day takes me,” he replies.

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes at the cavalier remark, gritting his teeth against the smell of smoke carried to him on the wind from the burning bodies.

 

“You got a chem tent?” he tries again as Jasper moves farther away toward the gates.

 

“Nope!”

 

“Jasper!”

 

There’s no response as the younger man strolls briskly toward the tall guard post.

 

“Jasper! No one leaves without a chem tent,” Bellamy shouts, angrier now, as he begins moving in the direction of the gate.

 

“Do _you_ have a chem tent?” Jasper asks cheekily, still not turning around.

“Yeah.”

 

“Well then, I guess we have a chem tent.”

 

The self-satisfied smirk is still frozen on his face as Bellamy grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him around.

 

“Maybe you didn't see how those people died –”

 

“I saw,” Jasper cuts across him, shoving his arm away and continuing for the gate. “I'm just not afraid of it happening to me.”

 

“Jasper, it’s not safe out there!” Bellamy yells, face taut with poorly concealed exasperation.

 

He’s standing ankle deep in squishy mud now in front of what’s left of the crumpling Ark.

 

“What else is new?” Jasper returns with a bright smile completely unfit for the bleakness of their circumstances. He pushes the gray metallic gate open, turning around and waving his arm cheerfully.

 

“Come on! We're losing daylight!” he beckons up toward the sky before heading toward the tree line.

 

Bellamy grunts, hitching his black backpack up higher on his shoulder.

 

When the black rain’s ominous clouds finally swept away over the nearby mountains, they took eighteen Arkadians with them. Earlier that morning, Jaha led the memorial proceedings, carefully burning each cloth-wrapped body over a pyre as a small crowd watched. They were solemn yet water-logged, disheveled, with rips in their clothing and permanent frowns etched into their skin.

 

It was all so exhausting. So gruesome. So relentless.

 

Bellamy watches Jasper’s thin figure recede into the distance as he runs a hand over his face. Everyone’s known Jasper to be a flight risk since Mount Weather. His ridiculous antics – culminating in dousing Clarke with the last of the precious, foamy fire retardant as a practical joke – kept getting more extreme. But with so many other things to worry about, no one’s taken any time to really talk with him except Monty and Clarke.

 

And now Clarke’s gone.

 

His stomach twists as he thinks back to the last words he said to her, _“If I don’t see you again . . .”_

 

But she shut him done with her stern, piercing expression and firm, “ _No, you will.”_ And that was that. Who was Bellamy Blake to argue? He wasn’t even sure he would have known what to say if she’d let him speak anyway.

 

Besides, what was the point of confessing something somebody didn’t want to hear? That’s what he’d kept repeating to himself as he urged the rover faster and faster over the uneven terrain back to Arkadia. If he hit enough potholes, maybe the image of her standing beside that turquoise river – growing smaller in his rearview mirror – could be pushed from his mind. He knew he was leaving her with the hydrazine problem, with Roan, with nothing but more pain and disappointment to pass along to their friends at Becca’s lab. But he also knew she could navigate her way through it – she could find the third option when others only saw two hopeless ones. She was _Clarke_ , after all.

 

Since they’d landed, he’d latched on to her self-assured confidence, her resourceful diplomacy. He needed her strength, her belief in the goodness inside other people when he only found hardness. He needed her unshakable faith in him. He needed _her._

 

He never said it aloud though.

 

And now, now that the bottom was being yanked away from this fragile, half-baked home they’d tried to build on Earth? Well, now simply wasn’t the time. Now never was.  

 

Even when now was handing him all the perfect, tart replies he could have used at the river on a silver platter.

 

“ _Tell that to Mark and Peter,”_ he had imagined saying back to her when he returned from his failed rescue mission and beat the punching bag Lincoln had helped him set up in the gym until his knuckles grew swollen and red. He saw her face softening, deflating a little, taking the hit. Maybe she would reach out for his forearm, pressing a brief but insistent touch into the warm skin beneath his jacket. He would let it linger for a second before motioning her away as she whispered, “ _It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself. You did what you could.”_

But it wasn’t enough. He was the leader of The 100. Those kids had fought and died _for him_. He owed them – yet he couldn’t save them all from an unforgiving planet.

 

As he watches a wisp-like cloud skate across the golden sun, Clarke’s face appears in his mind’s eye. Illuminated by the dancing flames of the Unity Day blaze, she seems lighter and more carefree. Her blonde hair shines, framing her earnest blue eyes that tease him slightly. “ _Jasper’s one of The 100, too_ ,” she reminds him sweetly. “ _I saved him from the Grounder spear when you said he was a lost cause, remember?”_

 

That’s all it takes.

 

Bellamy sighs, and pushing his backpack further up his shoulder, he treks across the yard to follow Jasper out of the gate.

 

“Jasper! Jasper! Damn it,” he mutters as his boots squelch into the thick muck left over from the black rainstorm. “Hey! Grow the hell up.”

 

“Good, you're coming,” Jasper says as Bellamy reaches his side once more about fifty feet from the shadowy tunnel trail that will lead them into the woods.

 

“Yeah, but only because I don't want to carry your body bag.”

 

“Oh, come on! I'm pretty light,” he jokes. “I mean I'm wiry. But I'm pretty light.”

 

********

They’ve been trekking through tangled underbrush for the last two hours in search of Bellamy has no idea what. The sunlight is beginning to fade from the canopy top, leaving the odd mix of hazy, silver-gold light beams from the setting sun and rising moon to slant across the trail at odd angles. His backpack is heavy, and Bellamy feels his back drenched in sticky sweat. He’s knows they won’t have enough fresh water to stay outside much longer if they keep walking.

 

“I know it's bad that everything is dying and all. But I'm just gonna say it. I don't miss mosquitoes,” Jasper quips.

 

“This is all a big joke to you, isn't it?”

 

“Now you're getting it,” Jasper offers a lazy smile. “That's exactly what it is. One big, cosmic joke. You'd realize that too if you pulled the stick out of your ass.”

 

“That’s enough. That is enough!” Bellamy practically roars, sick of hearing Jasper’s crazy ramblings about the five stages of grief and ancient Native American rituals that all seem to involve taking copious amounts of Peyote.

 

“I'm just trying to help you, man,” Jasper argues back.

 

“You're trying to help me? That's funny,” Bellamy snorts. “It's late. We're leaving. Now.” He turns on his heel and strides off in the direction they came.

 

“Open your eyes!” Jasper’s dramatic, booming voice stops him in his tracks. “The clock is ticking, and it has been since we landed on this terrible, beautiful planet.”

 

Bellamy shakes his head, squinting his eyes as his forehead creases.

 

“What the hell does that _mean_?” he demands, stepping back into the clearing where Jasper stands near some huge tree trunks covered in orange-white glowing fungi.

 

“It means we are living on borrowed time. All of us!” Jasper says, eyes wide and insistent.

 

“So if you know that, why are you throwing it away?”

 

“I'm not,” he fights back. “You are,” he jabs his finger toward Bellamy’s chest.

 

Bellamy allows his head to drop with a small smile of disbelief like he’s a preschool boy caught in a lie.

 

“What is the point in beating yourself up for all of the crappy things you've done?” Jasper continues. “You did them. And don't say you had reasons because at the end of the day - _at the end of the world -_  nobody gives a damn about your reasons because they are _your_ reasons! No matter how much you punish yourself, it's not going to change anything. It's not going to bring anybody back!”

 

Bellamy’s stomach clenches as he recalls Gina handing him a copy of _The Iliad_ she found at Mount Weather. He brushes his lips with the tip of his index finger, feeling the ghost of her goodbye kiss.

 

“The way I see it, we can spend our last days wallowing in our reasons, or we can do whatever the hell we want. . . . And really mean it this time.”

 

There’s a tinge of something coating Jasper’s tone – desperation, hope, pleading – it’s hard to know for certain. But as Bellamy looks at the guy, he remembers him rushing forward in Mount Weather to hug him when he realized Bellamy had broken in to save their people from the horror of bone marrow extractions. A chunk of stone weight Bellamy didn’t realize he was holding snaps away from his chest.

 

Jasper watches him carefully, beginning to smile tentatively. He points over toward the tree trunks beside him.

 

“Magic beans. Remember those?”

 

“Hallucinogenic nuts? That's why you dragged me out here?” Bellamy asks in disbelief. “If you think I'm taking those again, you really are crazy.”  

 

“Whatever the hell you want,” Jasper says softly, holding up his hands in surrender before beginning to pluck the nuts from their olive-green vines and slide them into a small knapsack.

 

********

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Bellamy calls out in a curt tone several minutes later in the middle of a clearing in the woods. “You already ate some, didn’t you?”

 

Jasper’s arms are outstretched, and his eyes are closed as he spins around in circles, chanting a bunch of nonsense sounds.

 

“I’m breathing in the last of the good air, man!” he yells happily, snapping his brown eyes open. “I’m –” he leaps upon on an upturned log and begins dancing (very badly) across it – “taking a little time to enjoy the view!”

 

Bellamy runs a hand across his face and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“We don’t have time for this, Jasper. Come on. Come back to camp with me.”

 

“Can’t do that!” Jasper shouts out dizzily. “Haven’t finished all the moonshine in my flask yet,” he procures an oval-shaped silver container from an inside jacket pocket. He jumps down from the log and starts busily yanking bright flowers up out of the ground, preparing a bouquet still trailing stringy roots and clumps of dirt. “If Jaha found the real Second Dawn bunker, we’re going to be underground for the next five years! We won’t even have a porthole to look through. Got to make the most of nature while I can! I’m –” he clutches the flowers to his chest, “Going to make a beautiful bride!”

 

“Jasper, you sound insane,” Bellamy retorts drily.  

 

“No more insane than picking only 100 of the _most worthy_ people to survive when there were 5,000 to save,” he snaps back, suddenly sounding much more coherent as he chucks the flowers aside and rounds on Bellamy.

 

Bellamy sighs. They’ve been over this twice before, but it’s done little to curb Jasper’s low-boiling rage about the issue.

 

“Look, Jasper, I already told you, if you want to blame somebody for that list, blame me. Not Clarke. She didn’t want to make it in the first place,” he tries.

 

“Oh don’t worry!” Jasper scoffs before landing his punch. “I blame you both.”

 

He pauses for a minute, taking a few steps deeper into the eerily quiet forest before turning around again.

 

“You know – now that I think about it . . . what would you two even know about who’s life has more worth anyway, huh? Have either of you ever tried to really live?”

 

Bellamy yells back before he can stop himself, his jaw muscle twitching as he clenches his fists.

 

“I guess we don’t all have the privilege of getting drunk or high every night to forget our pain while other people figure out how to stay alive!”

 

“Hey, say what you want, but at least I’ve been _enjoying_ myself,” Jasper returns surprisingly calmly. “It’s not the years in your life that count, Bellamy, but the life in your years.”

 

And then he has the audacity to wink at his befuddled friend.

 

“Really? You’re quoting Abraham Lincoln to me now?” Bellamy shakes his head, glaring at him in disbelief.

 

“Hey, you got one!” Jasper claps loudly before smacking his palm to his head, leaning back on the balls of his feet. “That’s right! I forgot. You’re our resident historian – good for you! Well, if the shoe fits . . . ”

 

“And why does the shoe fit, Jasper?” Bellamy mutters through clenched teeth. “Enlighten me.”

 

“Because I haven’t seen you really enjoy anything since we were at the dropship,” comes the swift answer.

 

The sick part is it sounds sincere.

 

Bellamy laughs, but it’s hollow and cold.

 

“What is it I’m supposed to be enjoying?” Bellamy feels the blood rushing up his neck and into his face. But once he starts spewing out the thoughts, it’s hard to stop. “The radiation coming in under two weeks? My sister hating me? The grounders wanting to rip Roan’s head off? That I couldn’t save Mark and Peter? Jaha and Kane going off in search of some crazy cult leader and his magical bunker? Being separated from— ”

 

“AH HA!” Jasper shouts, rushing forward and slicing his pointed finger through the air as if he just solved the mystery of existence. “There you go, Bellamy! Now just give me a little more, come on,” he emphasizes the statement by motioning with his hand. “Separated from whom? Could it be . . . oh, I don’t know . . . _Clarke_?”

 

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Jasper,” Bellamy’s voice drops a couple octaves as his eyes flash dangerously.

 

Jasper ignores the body language, stepping closer until they’re only a few feet apart.

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he offers sarcastically, throwing up his hands in faux defeat. “What would the guy who watched his girlfriend die in his arms know about seizing the moment and telling people how you feel about them before it’s too late?”

 

Bellamy looks away for a moment, staring deeply into the blackened hollow of a chestnut tree where he notices the faintest swish of a furry tail. When he looks back at Jasper, his face is unreadable.

 

“My girlfriend got blown up at Mount Weather because Azgeda tricked me into leaving. Don’t you think I know something about regret?” he demands.

 

Jasper’s expression only falters for a second or two before he’s back in fight mode.

 

“You might _know_ all about it, man. But you’re not _doing_ anything about it! And that’s what’s been so goddamned hard to watch!”

 

Bellamy’s eyebrows knit together as he stares at Jasper, waiting.

 

“Clarke asked Monty for an update on your hunting team’s location every hour last time you were gone! She was willing to give up half the seats on the Ark to the grounders in a deal with Roan to make sure he’d free you—”

 

Bellamy’s eyes spring open in surprise at this new bit of information.

 

“How do you know—”

 

“Because she told Octavia when she was treating her after the fire. And Octavia told me,” he says simply, digging his hands into his pants pockets and squaring his shoulders.

 

“Listen, Bellamy. We all know how you feel. I mean,” he begins ticking examples off on his fingers, “Monty saw you try to save her from the Ice Nation army single-handed. You pulled the lever at Mount Weather with her, so she wouldn’t have to do it alone. Raven accused you of being devoted to her before her ALIE exorcism. Miller and Harper used to place bets on when you two would finally hook up back at the dropship after _yet another_ shouting match. I even overheard Jaha telling Abby what a _perfect leadership team_ you two made when you got back from the bunker,” Jasper finishes, raising his voice to a girly falsetto to mock the former Chancellor. “It’s nauseating, especially with 10 days left until apocapalooza. And you’re the guy who used to have threesomes, for God’s sake! Do I need to go on?” he watches Bellamy pointedly. “Just **do something** already!”

 

Bellamy kicks his foot into the dirt and runs a hand through his tousled hair.

 

Jasper fully expects him to deny it all, to punch him even. But when he looks up, there’s pain in his eyes.

 

“I’ll just push Niylah out of the way first, how’s that?” he snaps back quietly.

 

Jasper strokes at his facial hair for a few, philosophical moments. Then the humor is back in his voice as he changes tack at the speed of light.

 

“Ok. Point taken. Then forget her, play hardball! Have fun on your own terms, Bellamy. You deserve to have fun, or, you know, whatever the hell you want. I’m just saying don’t waste that pretty face on me,” he finishes with a cheeky wink.

 

Bellamy shoots him an annoyed look but follows him back up the overgrown trail to Arkadia, feeling a small surge of satisfaction every time his boots snap across an intruding branch.

 

********

“Sounds like they got it started without us!” Jasper says appreciatively as they enter the dimly lit Ark garage. A booming bass beat reverberates in Bellamy’s chest, and he catches electric blue lights flickering out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Got what started?” he says loudly.

 

“Fun!”

 

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at him.

 

“Come on!” Jasper shrugs. “Everybody’s gonna die, Bellamy. And you can go out like them,” he gestures toward a blonde woman who’s hunched over a cot, crying, “Or like us. The ending’s the same. But who says the journey has to suck?”

 

Jasper turns and walks jauntily up a plank toward the bar, tossing the bag of nuts to Niylah behind the counter. Bellamy watches him hug a smiling Harper, tracks his eyes across the bodies swaying to the rhythm on the dance floor.

 

A flash of bright blonde hair catches his eye as he sees Bree walking toward him. She stops just inches in front of him, flipping her hair lightly over her shoulder and placing one hand on his chest.

 

“Hey, dance with me,” she says invitingly, leaning in.

 

“I don’t dance,” he looks down at her. That night in his tent seems long ago and far away. He hasn't seen much of Bree since rescuing her from Mount Weather. She'd given him a tight hug when he'd walked back into the medical chamber to help free their people chained to the walls. He remembers her sobbing into his shoulder while he awkwardly patted the hair spilling across her back. 

 

But as her green eyes flash mischievously, a different memory hits his brain. They were in his tent with Roma, and she was licking her way down his body . . . 

 

“I don’t _really_ want to dance,” she pouts up at him.

 

She must be wearing some sort of floral perfume because the blossom scent fills his nostrils. It smells _nice._ Soft. Feminine. Familiar. 

 

He glances over his shoulder and sees Jasper toasting him from afar, a huge smile on his face. Harper’s right beside him, nodding encouragingly.

 

“Come on,” Bree says, sliding her hands into her pockets and motioning toward the party with her chin.

 

He hesitates, weighing the situation. 

 

He hears her small sigh. And then she slips her hand into his and tugs a little, flashing her eyebrows at him. So he goes willingly up the plank toward his friends.

 

“Yes!” Jasper cries jubilantly as they arrive while Harper laughs. “Good idea. Let someone else save the world for once!”

 

Bellamy shakes his head but is smiling, too. He accepts the blue cup passed to him and takes a swig of the moonshine, allowing it to burn down his throat as he feels Bree squeeze his fingers comfortingly.

 

He’s crushing his third cup onto the table as Harper roars in approval when Bree disappears from his side, glancing back at him over her shoulder. She moves gracefully amongst all the waving arms and rocking hips, finding an empty spot for herself. He watches her close her eyes and get lost in the music, rippling and flowing along with it.

 

Jasper raises his eyebrows suggestively, and Bellamy gives a cocky half-shrug before following her into the crowd.

 

He presses his hands into her hips, fingers teasing the small bit of exposed skin where her blue top doesn’t quite meet her jeans.

 

She relaxes into his chest, tipping her head back to breathe in his ear, “I thought you didn’t dance.”

 

“For you, I’ll make an exception,” he murmurs against her neck.

 

Her fingers clasp over his, interlocking them, as she guides their bodies to the beat.

********

When he wakes up, his mouth feels dry like cotton. And it’s like he got run over by a rover. Chinks of sunlight hit his face, from where his blinds remain half-open, causing him to squint.

 

He rolls over, shifting his arm and feels it press against something soft and smooth. Something sweet-smelling. His fingers glide across skin as he hears a female voice giggle, “Good Morning, Bellamy.”

 

He freezes, popping his eyes open. Blonde hair overtakes his vision, spreading out across the white pillow as a set of hips back up into his own. It takes him a moment to remember the dancing, the music, the moonshine, _that damn tea_ _Jasper twisted his arm into taking a few swigs of._

 

Bree flips over in his arms, so she’s facing him. She smiles at him, and he notices her white, straight teeth. But he can’t help it. He wishes he was looking at another face. He tries to mask it though by kissing her shoulder and lightly tickling her side, making her squirm away from him and squeal.

 

“Bellamy!” she smacks him lightly on the chest, laughing.

 

He lays down on his back, and she tucks her head into the crook of his shoulder, tracing her fingers along his abs.

 

“Last night was fun,” she whispers. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, it was great,” he tries his hand at sounding cheerful, but it rings false to his ears.

 

“It was the first time I’d seen you relaxed in _ages_ ,” she presses on, gliding her palm up to his chest. “You’re always off doing something heroic it seems like. How are you feeling, anyway?”

 

“Uhh, my head’s a little . . . foggy. I’ll be fine,” he replies, jaw clenching.

 

“I’ll get you some water,” she offers, pulling a sheet around her body and stepping toward her discarded clothes strewn across the only chair in his room. She pulls them on then makes her way to the door. “I’ll be back in a second,” she grins at him before her swish of yellow hair is obscured by his slate gray door clicking shut.

 

“Uggghh,” he moans into his pillow as soon as she’s gone, sitting up slowly and cradling his aching head in his hands. “I’m going to kill Jasper!” he mutters between clenched teeth.

 

The previous night returns to him in flashes. _Bree grinding down against his knee on the dance floor. Him pushing her against a wall and kissing her hungrily out in the hallway. Stumbling into his room and knocking a few books off his dresser in their haste to get to his bed. His fingers making fast circles across her clit as she sucked at his neck. Her throat taking him deep as he fisted her yellow hair . . ._

 

“Damn it, get a grip,” he mutters to himself, pushing himself out of bed and pulling on his dark guard’s uniform.

 

Bree slips back into the room just as he starts lacing up his boots. Glass of water held firm in one hand, she presses a swift kiss to his lips before he can react.

 

“Do you want to go to breakfast?” she asks, handing him the water.

 

“Oh, uh, no, I mean, I can’t,” he stumbles, glancing up at her swiftly before turning his attention back to his footwear. “I’ve got Guard duty this morning. And Kane might need us to report to Polis or, uh, Becca’s Island soon, so I’ll probably just grab something from the canteen and be ready . . . if anyone needs me.”

 

“Right . . . if _anyone_ _needs_ _you_ ,” Bree sighs, rolling her eyes. “I swear it’s like nothing’s changed since the dropship.”

 

“What are you talking about?” he locks his eyes on her hazel ones.

 

She takes a handful of her long hair and shakes it at him. “I’m not an idiot, Bellamy!” she snaps, before yanking the door open. “And I don’t like to be used.”

 

He’s still gaping at her silently. A look of hurt flickers across his face before he can suppress it. She sighs heavily now, letting her face fall into some semblance of pity.

 

He doesn’t like it.

 

“The Princess conquered the Rebel King a long time ago, Bellamy. You call her name in your sleep,” she says shortly before letting the door slam behind her. 

 


	2. Caring About Him More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word from Polis that the Second Dawn bunker's been found sends him straight to Becca's Island.

_“My lover's got humor_

_She's the giggle at a funeral_

_Knows everybody's disapproval_

_I should've worshipped her sooner._

_If the heavens ever did speak,_

_She's the last true mouthpiece_

_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_

_A fresh poison each week._

_"We were born sick"_

_You heard them say it_

_My church offers no absolutes_

_She tells me "worship in the bedroom."_

_The only heaven I'll be sent to_

_Is when I'm alone with you_

_I was born sick, but I love it_

_Command me to be well._

_Amen, Amen, Amen_

_Take me to church--_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife._

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life.”_

_~Hozier, “Take Me to Church”_

 

He’s stomping down the hallway so loudly he’s making the metal shake like a thunderstorm under his feet.

 

When he turns left toward the Chancellor’s strategy room, he sees Jasper ambling toward him from the opposite direction.

 

“Hey, man!” Jasper grins, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly way. “I just saw Bree wearing the same thing she was last night. So...did someone get lucky? Did it help with, you know, _the situation_?” he drops his voice an octave with the last question, adopting a faux-sympathetic look full of wiggling eyebrows.

 

“Get out of my way, Jasper,” Bellamy snarls, stepping around him.

 

“Woah, why so touchy? I was just trying to help!”

 

But Bellamy’s already putting distance between them.

 

“Hey!” Jasper’s shout echoes down the hallway. “You should know Miller’s dad’s looking for you. Kane radioed they found the real bunker in Polis. He’s letting Abby know, too. Jaha wants to bring Roan back to Polis and probably—”

 

“Clarke,” the name falls heavily from Bellamy’s mouth like a broken promise as he whirls around.

 

“Exactly,” Jasper smirks. “I told him I knew a man who’d be up for the job. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some more party supplies to find,” and he heads off toward the Ark's main entrance without another word.

 

********

He parks the rover as near to Becca’s sprawling gray mansion as possible before springing down from the driver's seat.

 

“Bellamy? You there? Come in, Bellamy?” he hears Miller’s voice crackle over the radio.

 

“Yeah, just got here,” Bellamy answers. “Good to hear your voice, man.”

 

“You too. All right, I’m going to take down the drones, so you can cross the tree line.”

 

The swimming pool blows his mind. It’s turquoise blue like a rare gem, surrounded by a beautiful white stone railing.

 

“How did that?” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder as he slides the glass door to the house open, “Survive the apocalypse?”

 

Murphy looks up from the water he’s boiling on the stove and grins.

 

“Hi, Bellamy,” Emori calls out from her seat beside Raven on the fire-red velvet couch. He gives her a nod of acknowledgment. 

 

“You made it!” Murphy cries out, lowering the stove temperature before walking up and clapping Bellamy on the back in a half-hug. “And from what I hear, crazy Jaha found us the salvation bunker, after all.”

 

“That’s the way I hear it, too,” Bellamy returns easily. “So, since when do you cook?”

 

“I’m a man of many talents,” Murphy replies, returning to the stove.

 

“Keeping his wet towels off the bathroom floor is not one of them,” Miller throws out as he enters the kitchen from the back hallway. “How’s it going, Bellamy?”

 

“I’m good, how are you?”

 

“Hanging in there. Glad to hear the lab experiments can be called off,” he says.

 

“You and me both,” Raven mutters darkly from his left.

 

He looks around the expansive space at his friends’ faces. They seem happier, lighter in a way he hasn’t seen in what feels like a lifetime. Miller walks over to a complicated-looking sound system full of many dials and buttons. But he punches several in succession confidently until a punk rock theme fills the air.

 

“Your taste in music sucks, Miller!” Raven cries out, pushing pillows up against her ears as Emori laughs.

 

“You love it, Reyes! You just don’t want to admit it,” Miller shoots back, shaking his shoulders as he begins to dance with great finesse across the kitchen floor.

 

_The move jerks Bellamy back to the DNR party, the strobe lights, his tangled bedsheets, squeezing Bree’s breast in his hand as he drove into her from below . . ._

He shakes his head sharply. The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he won’t voice it. Instead, he slides his backpack onto a nearby cushioned chair and walks farther into the room.

 

“Can I help with something?” he asks Murphy.

 

“Nah, I wouldn’t trust you to know tomato sauce from salsa,” Murphy jokes. “Go sit down. I’ll get you something to drink. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. In the meantime, Raven and Miller can fill you in on everything that’s been going on here with the nightblood solution.”

 

The room suddenly feels like a blast of cold air was let in. Emori grips the side arm of the couch tightly enough for her fingers to turn white.

 

Raven shoots Murphy a harsh look.

 

“He just got here, Murphy. Could you lay off for 25 seconds?” she says bitingly.

 

“Oh, I think Bellamy deserves to hear how his best friend Miller was more than willing to sacrifice my girlfriend’s life for science,” he spits back, stirring the pasta too rigorously, causing water to splash up over the side.

 

Bellamy’s eyes widen as they shift to Emori, then Miller.

 

“Someone start talking,” he growls.

 

Raven sighs, then begins.

 

Her voice barely wavers as she tells of the Grounder’s excruciating death gurgling up black poison in the radiation machine as his cells exploded in a bloody mess. How Emori and Murphy were chained to the rocket to stop them from smashing the machine. How Roan knocked Luna unconscious due to her peaceful protest attempt. He’s three-quarters of the way done with a beer Murphy passed him and gazing at them like he’s never seen them properly before when she finishes.

 

He must look pale, or sick, or something, because Raven squeezes his knee comfortingly once at the end of her speech.

 

“But it’s ok, Bellamy,” she saying. “Luna’s fine. She’s resting in the lab with Abby and Jackson. And,” she gestures at Emori, smiling warmly, “You can see Emori is ok, too.”

 

Bellamy nods slowly, eyes tracking over her face suspiciously. He knows Raven. He knows when she’s not telling him the whole story.

 

“How did you get out of being used?” he shifts his attention abruptly to Emori. She blanches a bit under his intense gaze.

 

He turns to Murphy, who won’t make eye contact with him.

 

“Who did you use instead?” he demands, slamming his bottle down on the glass table and standing up. “Miller, tell me right now!” He can feel the blood pounding in his ears, knows what the answer is by the way they won’t acknowledge the question. Miller shifts uncomfortably by the table, clenching his hands together in front of him.

 

“I swear to God, Miller, if you put her in there--” he starts taking swift, dangerous steps toward his best friend, fists already clenched at his sides.

 

“Nobody touched Clarke,” Roan says loudly and clearly as he walks into the room, hair loose and dripping slightly onto his pale blue shirt. He’s barefoot and without his customary traveler’s cloak, looks strange. Bellamy stops dead in his tracks. “But she volunteered herself and put the black blood into her arm before any of us could stop her.”

 

He meets Bellamy’s gaze steadily, as if testing him.

 

“WHAT?” Bellamy erupts, and changing direction like an alley cat, he reaches Roan in under two seconds, slings back his fist, and punches him squarely in the jaw before Roan has time to react.

 

“YOU – DIDN’T – STOP – HER – YOU – SON – OF – A – BITCH!” Bellamy tries to punctuate each word with a fresh punch to any part of Roan he can reach, aiming mostly for his face.

 

Roan manages to strike him twice, causing a ringing in Bellamy’s head and the coppery taste of blood to drown his mouth.

 

“Bellamy!” Murphy and Miller fight to get between the two, trying to evade the punches themselves.

 

Miller twists Bellamy’s arms behind his back, but not before he aims a solid hit to Roan’s stomach, watching him crumple beside the sleek granite island counter.

 

“Roan’s telling the truth!” Murphy shouts over all the noise. “Clarke surprised us all. Nobody told her to inject herself or made her do it!”

 

“Calm the hell down!” Miller adds in, pulling a heaving Bellamy away from the kitchen and back toward the living room. "Clarke's ok."

 

Raven and Emori are standing up now too, watching him warily.

 

“Abby broke the machine – she smashed its glass sides. It won’t work anymore. Clarke was never in it. She didn’t sacrifice herself,” Raven says as she follows Miller and Bellamy outside onto the back patio. Bellamy’s chest continues to rise and fall prominently as he regains his breath.

 

“You’re bleeding,” Raven says, looking at his mouth.

 

“I’m fine,” he brings his fingers up to his teeth and draws them away smeared with crimson liquid. He walks over to the railing and spits over the side of it, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand.

 

“Charming,” Raven smirks at him.

 

He glowers at her.

 

“Where. Is. She?” he asks it in such a dangerous way, stepping forward and leering over her, that she has a hard time meeting his gaze.

 

“She’s upstairs, resting. Last room on the right,” Raven replies.

 

********

He moves quickly and quietly down the plush carpet of the second floor hallway, farther and farther away from the gleaming white kitchen and its dark secrets. When he passes a green-tiled bathroom, he pops inside for a moment. The space is larger than he expected, cool, and cavernous. He wraps his hands around the edge of the marble countertop, hesitantly looking up into the gleaming glass at his reflection. 

 

It's not as bad as he thought. Roan must have hit him beneath his hairline, so there's no apparent bruising on his face. But his hair looks more unkempt than ever, spiraling out in numerous directions. He runs his hands under the copper faucet and smooths the water droplets across the dark locks. It helps a little bit - he looks less  _wild_ now. Rummaging under the sink though the cabinets and drawers, he comes across some small, white plastic cups. He uses one to rinse out his mouth, quickly finding the jagged cut - made by Roan's pointed ring - at the corner of his lip. He rubs a dab of ointment across it that he finds in the medicine cabinet and applies pressure to the area until his blood begins to clot. It doesn't surprise him much to find a plastic-wrapped toothbrush in the right-hand drawer along with a miniature tube of mint toothpaste. He shakes his head at these small luxuries, but quickly brushes his teeth nonetheless to finish the job. There's no need for Clarke to have any idea about the fight when they should be focused on _her reckless urge to constantly off herself._

 

Her door is cracked open a fraction of an inch, and a soft, pinkish light seeps out into the hall. He wraps his knuckles against the wooden door.

 

“Clarke?” his voice sounds strangled, even to him.

 

He pushes it open just a tiny bit, knocking again so as not to startle her.

 

“Bellamy!” she calls out from her spot buried beneath a deep comforter on a plush white bed. He takes in some interesting lamps and a crackling, electric fire before the breath is knocked out of his lungs by her fierce hug. “I didn’t know Kane would send you!” her muffled voice says.

 

He doesn’t hesitate to hold her tightly. He wraps his arms around the small of her back and pulls her into his body, gently running his fingers up and down her spine. She sighs against him, shoulders loosening. He can feel the outline of her lips on his shoulder, and he allows a hand to gently cup the back of her hand, reveling in the silken waves that smell like honeysuckle.

 

She draws back to inspect him fully, relieved when she encounters no new bruises or injuries. She grabs at his forearms, turning them over in her fingers.

 

“I can’t believe you risked your life going into the black rain in a busted suit!” she rebukes him, blue eyes fierce as they lock on his dark brown ones.

 

His surprise colors his face, momentarily pushing his fear for her safety from his mind.

 

“Kane told us,” she says simply.

 

“It was for Peter Colton and his dad. He was one of The 100, Clarke. He was one of us,” he returns gruffly after a moment, but he can barely meet her eyes. 

 

She nods sadly, face full of sympathy.

 

“You did the best you could. You did the right thing,” she whispers. 

 

His eyes catch on the long, cream-colored pajama shirt covering her arm. Suddenly, seized with his whole reason for storming upstairs in the first place, he takes her right forearm delicately in his hands and rolls up the sleeve.

 

He gasps when he peers down at the near-translucent skin inside her elbow. Black lines crisscross the space like polluted rivers, completely invading her once blue-green veins. His fingertips hover over the skin as he shakes his head.

 

“Clarke,” he breathes, horrified.

 

“There was no other choice!” she begins protesting adamantly. “It was either let Emori be killed, or put the needle in my own arm—”

 

Clarke.” His voice is heavy, tired, sad. “Stop.”

 

She blinks at him, peering into his face like a lost child. He can see the tears threatening to brim over.

 

“You can’t do things like this! You can’t sacrifice yourself. I need you to live! Do you understand me?” he catches her chin in his palm and draws her eyes back to his when she tries to lower her head.

 

“My mom stopped me. She broke the machine,” she admits, yanking her sleeve back down. He lets his hand fall away when he realizes he’s still touching her. “Anyway,” she shrugs, “I’m fine. I feel fine. Tell me about the bunkers! That's more important. How many people can fit? Can we survive?" 

 

“New day, new disaster, new crazy Jaha scheme,” he returns sarcastically. “But we’ve still got time, so can you focus for a second? I want to tell you about something.” 

 

“Sure,” her voice sounds softer and higher than usual. He takes a step closer to her. He invades her personal space, but she doesn’t back down.

 

“There’s a group back at the Ark led by Jasper. They’re calling themselves DNR, and they’re partying every night. They get drunk, they get high, dance. It’s crazy. Fun, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing,” he raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Ok?" she asks hesitantly. "But they've been like that for weeks now." 

 

“They won’t go into the bunker,” he says flatly, and she just stares at him for a few moments.

 

The tiny lines around her mouth crinkle when she frowns. 

 

“Why are they acting insane?" she shakes her head at him, bemused. "I didn't get it while I was there, and I don't get it now."

 

"Jasper wants to live. He says the bunker is a cursed survival." 

 

"What the hell does that even mean?" she sighs, exasperated. "He won't live when the radiation cloud burns his skin off his body, Bell! We have to do something!" 

 

“That’s just it. I don't think we could reach them. It’s a lot of what’s left of The 100.They’re past the point of caring, Clarke,” he squints his eyes shut, rubbing circles into the arches of his eyebrows with his thumb and pointer finger. “Even Harper’s being pulled in by it. Bryan too from what I can tell. It’s like we failed.”

 

“Have you gone to one of the parties?” she asks quietly.

 

It’s definitely not the question he was expecting.

 

His eyes bounce back open.

 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Two nights ago. Why?"

 

"What was it like?" she says it hesitantly. 

 

"I wish you’d been there with me. We could have finally had that drink,” he smiles down at her, unthinkingly pressing his fingers into her forearm.

 

She returns the smile, but she’s tight-lipped about it, wincing.

 

“Damn it! It’s hurting you!” he says angrily, pulling her sleeve back up and watching the black blood move beneath her skin. “Don’t you know you can’t make these stupid, self-sacrificial moves, Princess?”

 

“Bellamy—”

 

“No! That’s not how this works!” he says forcefully, losing his temper. “You get to tell me you need me, that you can’t do this without me. Well, you know what? I can’t do this without you either, ok? Even if you’re with Niylah. It doesn’t matter to me! You’re still _mine_.”

 

He can’t believe he said it, and by the look on her face, neither can she. But there it is. Out in the open, naked and dangerous like a loaded, automatic rifle in the hands of a crazed man.

 

“I’m yours?” Arousal passes across her face as her pupils dilate, but it’s shoved away and almost immediately replaced by a touch of anger. “Were you alone at that party, Bellamy?” her words cut into his skin like a sword’s blade.

 

He glances to his left at the full-length mirrors encasing one whole wall and gasps inadvertently. He’s never seen them together before, in a mirror. They’re like a study in opposites. He’s much taller than her, obviously. But his clothes are all black and heavy, and her pajamas are cream and white with bits of delicate lace embroidered into the edges. Her hair is striking as the light from the lamps shines on it, but his is, too. Wild, curling, and dark as it frames his eyes and face. His tanned skin nearly glows in this quiet bedroom, and her ivory-colored skin practically sparkles.

 

Clarke follows his gaze and takes in the sight of them together, too, transfixed. She’s quiet as the moments tick by. Finally, he clears his throat, and she pulls her eyes away. 

 

“Were you alone?” she repeats once more, watching his face carefully.

 

“No,” he admits, knowing he could take the easy way out and say he’d hung out with Harper and Jasper. But they don’t lie to each other. He takes a deep breath. “I was with Bree.”

 

Hurt flickers across Clarke’s face like a sand storm, kicking up, and then disappearing rapidly.

 

“All night, right?” she demands, but her voice is breaking anyway.

 

His shoulders slump a little bit. He feels like he’s caving in.

 

“Yeah, but I don’t see how that’s any different from you and—”

 

“It’s different because you walked away from me!” she interjects, nearly yelling. She looks shocked at her own outburst and claps a hand over her mouth as if to stifle words already spoken.

 

“When? When did I do that?” he demands, confused.

 

“When we finished the list.”

 

“ _If I’m on that list, you’re on that list,”_ his words echo in his head at full volume. The cool blue Chancellor’s room had glimmered familiarly around them when she’d rested her cheek against his hand, nuzzling his skin. _That’s what that was? A come on?_ His brain tries to wrap itself around the concept. But, then again, didn’t his gut always know that’s what she’d meant it to be? Known she’d never be too bold with him when she was always so busy backing away and playing it safe, just like him? He hadn’t trusted her fully to not shatter him again. That was the simple truth.

 

But it won't be the truth he tells her. 

 

“I told you to get some sleep. You were exhausted.”

 

“I wanted you to come with me!” she sounds more exasperated than usual, running a hand through her loose waves. He hardly ever sees her with her hair completely down and free.

 

He swallows hard. When he trails his hand along her side and lets it settle against the curve of her waist, he feels her shiver.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you," he lets his hand drop. "But . . . you left me to deal with our people myself after Mount Weather. And I forgave you for that," he continues hurriedly when she makes a move like she'll interrupt.

 

"Let me finish, Clarke," his tone brooks no argument. "When you decided to stay with her, after she betrayed us, that was a lot harder to take. And I watched you cry about her in that jail cell in Polis. That was brutal, Clarke. I’m sorry if it's not what you want to hear. I wish I didn’t have to say it." 

 

She starts shaking her head almost violently, eyes filled with sorrow when she looks up at him. 

 

" _Bellamy,"_ the name sounds like a prayer.

 

“It's ok. You don't owe me anything," he tries to keep his voice calm and level, detached. "None of it means I wouldn’t do anything to save you – and maybe I’m an idiot for that. That's fine," he mumbles more to himself than to her. "I don't know if my partner from the dropship is still in there. Sometimes I think so. I want to believe it. I know you want me to believe it. Sometimes I feel like she's dead though."

 

It's so silent he doesn't look at her right away. But when he does, when he sees full rivers flow down her cheeks, he's startled. 

 

"Clarke! Damn it! I'm sorry. Come on, it's ok! We'll work on it. It's ok." 

 

He pats her upper arm a few times before hurrying over to a chest of drawers where she's left a few shirts on top. He brings a soft one back to her, and she wipes at her face, shuddering, finally gasping for breath as the tears keep coming.

 

“Bellamy, it's not ok," she chokes out, her red-rimmed eyes pleading with him. "I know it's not ok! I shouldn't have done that to you, and I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I hurt you. I stayed because I wanted to make sure she kept her word!” She dabs at her cheeks and eyes.

 

He scoffs.

 

“Right, that was always her strong suit.”

 

She tosses the shirt back across the room where it lands on top of the dresser once more. Stepping so close to him there’s only a few inches between their bodies, she catches his hands in her own.

 

“I wanted to go home with you when you came to Polis. But I couldn’t – I couldn’t let them see how much you meant to me. It would have jeopardized the whole alliance! And after we fought in Arkadia . . . I don’t know. I thought you hated me, and she was kind and understanding and –”

 

He closes his eyes, clenching his jaw and standing stock still.

 

"Didn't you hate me? You did, didn't you? You can say it. It's all right. Maybe it'll be good for us," her voice is inexplicably hopeful.

 

"Hating you isn't possible, Princess. God knows I've tried," he spits out the words to the backs of his eyelids. 

 

"Stop trying to protect me from--"

 

“Clarke!” his desperate tone makes her cease talking immediately. “I can’t anymore! It’s enough! It's over. This is it, the apocalypse. This is all we’ve got. So what’s it gonna be?” When he opens his eyes, his gaze drills deep into hers; she swears her heart skips a beat or two.

 

“What do you want me to say?” she whispers, eyes raking over his well-sculpted cheekbones. His warm, light brown freckles scattered across his nose, the full swell of his lips. "Just tell me what to say to make it better, and I'll say it. I'll fix it. I want to fix it." She moves closer to him, clutching her hands together. 

 

“You know the answer,” he draws her closer by wrapping an arm around her waist. “I want you to say that you’re _with me._ ”

She snorts a little at that, a tiny laugh escaping her throat like the tinkling of bells. It sends warmth throughout his whole body. 

 

"That easy, huh? Just a little irony and wordplay?" 

 

"Words from the master shouldn't be changed," he says drily. 

 

“I can do that," she promises, ignoring his sarcasm, suddenly serious. "Bellamy, I’ve always been with you. Even when we were in different places, with different people. It didn’t matter. I cared about you most. A part of me was always with you. I thought you knew that. I thought you knew how much I loved you.”

 

She hears him catch his breath and smiles.

 

"Really?" he asks incredulously. "You thought I knew?" 

 

"Yeah . . ." she says slowly, fear lapping at her insides again, and she shoves it away. "Blowing up cities and giving up half of our people's spots to survive the apocalypse isn't something I'd do for anyone else. You  _know_ that." 

  

“That’s good to hear, Clarke. Because they're both things you shouldn't have done." he replies, voice grating like wheels over gravel. "One day you may have to let me go again. Like when you closed the dropship door." 

 

"No," she breathes out like a promise on the wind. "I don't choose that. I can't. I won't." 

 

His kiss is solid, unexpected, and sweet, but she eagerly kisses him back. In moments, she’s wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself snugly into his chest.

 

She smiles a small smile against his mouth when he completely tangles his fingers in her hair, whispering against his cheek, “I had a feeling you always liked it.”

 

“You have no idea,” he growls, nipping at her bottom lip and pushing his tongue into her mouth. He tastes like honey. She tugs at his shirt with both hands, the movement urging him to step forward and follow her toward the bed.

 

“Hold on, hold on, not so fast,” he pants against her neck. She feels her heartbeat kick up when he spins her around toward the mirror. “I want to watch us for a while,” he murmurs into her hair. The words alone cause her walls to clench, and she feels moisture seep out against her thighs.

 

Standing right behind her, he widens his stance and pulls her flush against his front. Their gazes lock together in the mirror. He snakes a hand around her side, right under her breasts, and slides the other under her sleep shirt, skating across her stomach. As his warm hand inches lower, his grip on her tightens. She can feel his erection pressing into her back, and it makes her a little dizzy.  

 

She leans back into him, letting him support her weight. Turning her head, she rises on her tiptoes and kisses his jawline.

 

“You’re going to tell me what feels good, ok, Princess?” he watches her in the mirror.

 

She nods.

 

His fingers tug at the edge of her top, and she lifts her arms over her head, allowing him to pull it off completely. She wears a thin tank top underneath it, her nipples clearly visible right through the fabric.

 

His eyes darken at the sight.

 

“Apparently, you like when I call you Princess,” he chuckles, sucking the sensitive spot on the side of her neck.

 

“It’ll be our secret,” she moans, bending her head to the side to give him better access.

 

His hands glide across her hips, up her stomach, and to her breasts. She watches the progress in the shining glass. He cups them, they fill the hollows of his palms so well, and flicks across her nipples until they’re almost painfully hard.

 

“That was quick,” he notes, pushing at the edge of her elastic waistband of her pants with his fingers.

 

Clarke instantly accommodates his request, slipping them off down her legs before resuming her place in his arms. She traces wavy patterns into his muscular biceps, kissing him hungrily and pulling at the fabric of his shirt, whimpering until he relents and allows her to take it off him. 

 

She brushes up against his erection, eager to grind against it, but he stills her hips. With just the barest brush of her fingers along his toned abs as a parting gift, he turns her again, so she’s facing the mirror once more.

 

When he touches her hardening clit through her underwear, she pushes back against him, keening. But he just laughs a little and continues to rub her vigorously, kissing her neck. He only gives her a minute of reprieve when he slides one hand to the edge of her breast, keeping the other arm wrapped firmly around her waist. He teases the sides of the rounded flesh with the back of his fingers slowly, inching closer to her nipple with each swipe of his skin.

 

At last, he runs a finger around the edge of it repeatedly as it tightens and hardens so much she lets out a small gasp. He bites lightly into the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder as he squeezes one nipple hard between his fingers. She knows he's going to leave marks on her body. The thought gives her goosebumps. Her legs start shaking before he even begins his journey to her other breast as she pants his name. 

 

“Bell-am-y! Bed. Now. Please,” she asks the hooded eyes of his reflection.

 

He grasps her hand in return, bringing it to his lips and kissing her palm.

 

She makes short work of his belt and pants from her perch against the fluffy pillows as he kneels in front of her. It leaves him in his boxers, and much as she’d like to remove those too, he yanks the tank top over her head and covers her body with his own insistently.

 

“Bossy,” Clarke mutters into his ear.

 

“You can’t be in charge everywhere, Clarke,” he responds, and she smiles. He captures her lips with his own again, sucking the joy right out of her mouth.

 

She shimmies out of her panties, kicking them off the bed with a flourish and slides her hands in the waistband of his boxers, grabbing at the curve of his ass.

 

“I want you inside me,” she huffs, scratching gently up his back.

 

“Patience, Princess,” he returns.

 

She gasps a few moments later when he slides one, and then two, fingers inside her with little preamble. Her back arches off the bed, but after a minute to adjust, her legs fall open to him as he pumps in and out of her.

 

“Come here,” she demands, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his mouth to hers as her hands play with his curls.

 

“Ahhh!” she cries out against his shoulder when he expertly finds the spongy tissue hidden along her inner wall. Her stomach clenches as sheer pleasure floods her whole body. He works the spot intensely, kissing her collarbone and lips before drawing back to watch her eyelids flutter from the sensations coursing through her.

 

He takes her hand and drags it down to the hard length still encased in his boxers.

 

“Let go, Clarke. And you can have the rest of me,” he promises her.

 

When she does at last, he’s as good as his word. She practically rips the last bit of cloth separating them away from his body and takes him in her hand.

 

“I want to make you feel good, too,” she whispers to him.

 

“Later. There will be time for that later,” he promises her. It’s lost on neither of them that they only have a week left above ground.

 

“There won’t be! Please let me, I want to,” she tries to insist.

 

But he catches her hand with his, and locking their fingers tight together, pushes them both to the side of her head. He keeps them pinned down there as he lies back down over her body. "You and me are going to get a later," he whispers against the shell of her ear. 

 

"Bell . . . "

 

“Legs around my hips, Princess,” he instructs in a tone bordering on demanding, and she huffs, but obliges quickly enough. He uses his other hand to guide himself into her slowly as she stretches to accommodate him. Her hips find the rhythm his set before too long, and she eagerly presses forward, desperate for release.

 

She's so wound up over this actually happening. And he's so forceful, snapping his hips into her until she moans and her spine arches up against him as he tries to express everything he can't say - his love, hurt, pain, fear, anger, utter devotion, gratefulness - into the way their bodies meet. 

 

She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, and holds on. He cups her shaking breasts and pulls her up by her back, so he can suck her into his mouth. She feels herself clenching, the spring deep within her pressed tighter, wound more sharply. When he falls back on his elbows and brings her up properly above him, she lets out a yelp at the change in positions.

 

His dark eyes bore into hers, and - goddamnit she loves him so much everything else starts fading away - she uses her index finger to draw circles on his stomach. His large, hot hands clasp around her waist, urging her to ride him harder.

 

She moans but obliges because at this point she'll do anything to make it better. And when she moves to press her hand between their bodies to rub herself, he lets out a cry like a wounded animal she once watched him kill in the woods - an arrow right through its heart - smacking it away lightly and replacing it with his own, insistent fingers.

 

Sparkling stars erupt in front of her eyes, and her orgasm rolls deeply through her entire body when she finally lets go. She knows he's seconds away, but he risks it anyway. 

 

"Get on your back, Clarke," he orders. 

 

She opens her thighs for him and sucks his tongue into her mouth as he nudges at her hyper-sensitive entrance. 

 

"Do you have an implant?" the thought crashes into his brain at that instant, even though they might not live past next week.

 

"No, solitary," she mumbles against his slick, sweet-smelling skin. 

 

He freezes, his eyes locking on hers for a long moment. 

 

"It's ok," she urges, fisting into the tangles knots of his hair and panting against his neck.

 

But he turns to stone under her fingers, gritting his teeth. 

 

"Please!" she strokes along his sweaty shoulder, bending to kiss it. "I want you to." 

 

"Fuck, Clarke," he makes the decision in a split second. 

 

Wrapping her arms around the undersides of his biceps, she almost yells out when he plunges all the way into her one last time and holds himself there as he comes deep inside her. 

 

He collapses onto the comfortable bed on his side, panting and dazed, and she cuddles against him, keeping their fingers intertwined while he lazily plays with the edges of her hair after a few moments. 

 

“It’s so beautiful,” he murmurs to her. “You’re so beautiful.”

 

She feels the blush stain her cheeks even though this is _Bellamy. Her Bellamy._ Even though she’s known how much he’s loved her for almost as long as they’ve been on Earth.


End file.
